


Morning meetings

by RussianWitch



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence isn't always the answer...PWP is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning meetings

Getting smashed face first into the wall, isn't how Napoleon planned to start his day. Life, he supposes, is always full of surprises: it's what keeps things interesting. He runs through a list of things that could have pissed Peril off, this time, and decides that  Ill ya  would have had to have been extremely lucky to stumble onto any of Napoleon's latest dealings on the side, so the aggression must have a different reason behind it. Not that  Illya  needs much of a reason to get pissed off enough to get physical.

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" He manages when  Illya  allows him a couple of breaths just to keep things interesting while grinding his knee in the small of Napoleon's back.

"You lie  to me, Cowboy." The Russian growls, and yeah, of course Napoleon lies to him: everyone of them lies to everyone else, it's the very basis of their status quo. Unfortunately, he doesn't get the chance to point that out before his breath is taken away again by  Illya's  knee moving down over his ass and lower, forcing its way between his legs. Napoleon fights the urge to keeps his legs closed, already more than familiar with  Illya's  bullheadedness and extremely away that one wrong move on his part, and his balls are very much in danger of getting ground into the wall as well...teaches him to open his door before getting dressed.

The knee in question comes unnervingly close to the tender organs anyway, far gentler than if Napoleon had not cooperated, and forces him on tip toe regardless: damn  Illya's  long legs and whatever the KGB had been feeding him for the man to become such a giant . The Russian fumbles at the belt keeping Napoleon's bathrobe closed, undoubtedly, deliberately letting Napoleon anticipate the next act of their little play. The silk whispers as it's pulled out of its loops, and is completely silent when wrapped around Napoleon's wrists.  Illya  growls as he tightens the makeshift bonds, pants against the back of Napoleon's neck pressing him harder against the wall, plastering himself against Napoleon's back.

He could take the moment to undo Peril's belt which is bound to hold a lock pick, he could have offered his wrists in a certain way that would have allowed him to escape the belt without much effort, he does neither, balls his fists and waits for  Illya's  next move. "Say 'no'." He's pressed harder against the wall as  Illya  presses harder against him, any more and he's going to be ground into paste between two immovable objects. "Say 'no', Cowboy."  Illya  grates against his ear.

Napoleon bites his tongue, not making any sound just in case it could be misunderstood. He can  feel  Illya  against the small of his back where the Russian's woollen trousers are making his skin itch annoyingly. They stay frozen in this tableau far too long as far as Napoleon is concerned, before  Illya  steps away keeping hold of Napoleon's wrists as he's pulled away from the wall.

Peril, Napoleon muses, is a man of many contrasts: having received tacit accent to do as he pleases, the man isn't particularly careful. Straightening up,  Illya  takes Napoleon's wrists along forcing him to bend over or wrench his arms out of their sockets. Rough fingers clamp across the back of his neck: soldier's hands, famer-  or workers hands on his skin, a few form of slumming. Quite a change from his usual diet of minor nobility and bored millionaire's  or their wives;  Illya  and Gaby both, only Ga by doesn't need him to work off her rage at...whatever, and Peril does.

He is pushed onto the bed carelessly left there as  Illya  takes a moment to undress himself. Napoleon doesn't see a point of depriving himself of the sight: miles of pale, scarred skin stretched over powerful muscles. Blue eyes flashing cold fire, mouth twisted in a sneer.  Illya  isn't happy to need, but he's less happy to get lectured regarding collateral damage. Napoleon manfully sacrifices himself to keep their happy little three-way partnership going, and mostly for the privilege of a longer leash. "Bitch."  Illya  judges, Napoleon growls in warning and earns himself a feral grin as his knees are kicked  ap art .

By now, Napoleon knows what to expect: callused hands spreading his ass, a saliva slicked thumb pressing inside without much warning once, twice, leaving Napoleon happy it's early morning and his body is still mostly relaxed. Thick fingers return slick with something or other, pry him open some more, but probably not enough, then Napoleon is biting down on the duve t  as  Illya  forces his way in. Napoleon is going to miss this someday: the rawness of getting savaged by an animal. His legs are forces too far a part,  Illya's  full weight on his back: helpless, owned.

"Brace, Cowboy." Peril's teeth in the back of his neck  where it will show.  It's a miracle he doesn't have a permanent scar there already after only six brief months of partnership, but then: it's a miracle he can still walk as well.  Illya  doesn't hold back: he pulls out slowly, torturing Napoleon with every inch until he's straining to trap the fat head.  B earing down on it in case  Illya  has decided to chance his mind,  Napoleon is grateful for the blanket in his mouth when  Illya's  hips snap forward sharply breaking him open.  Illya  certainly takes his time, and Napoleon would protest, but every thrust grinds his dick into the sheets rather nicely and even if that wasn't happening the sounds of  Illya's  quiet whining in need are enough to get him off on their own.

His bathrobe ends up tangled between them, sweaty silk getting in the way until Peril gets enough of the barrier . Emptiness after getting stretched almost beyond capacity makes Napoleon curse, and fight to spot where the damn Russian has gone. The sight of the naked giant turning to him knife in hand and a determined expression should have him fighting to get away, not shivering with terrified arousal. He trusts the Russian, Napoleon realizes, something that he couldn't have said even three months ago. Knowing that someday sooner or later  Illya  will betray said trust, Napoleon can't help himself, can only bare his neck and enjoy the ride. 

The sharp blade goes through the silk of the bathrobe like the material has no more substance than cobwebs. The last illusion cut to pieces, he's flipped onto his back, lands heavily on his arms, and gapes up at the man towering over him. He spreads his legs without getting prompted, erns himself a shadow of a smile and the knife at his throat. The blade skates across his skin, teases mercilessly but doesn't break it. The tip digging right into the hollow of the trachea pressing in. Gasping for breath, isn't advisable and yet, Napoleon does it anyway secure in the knowledge that  Illya  isn't out to make him bleed, not this way.

They haven't fucked face to face yet, watching the need on  Illya's  face, the way his eyes close involuntarily as he breeches Napoleon again, sheaths himself while watching him struggle. "My bitch." The Russian hisses, and Napoleon wishes he could surge up without impa ling  himself on the knife to sink his teeth into Peril's throat.

Only when  Illya  is close to release, does the knife at Napoleon's throat disappear. It makes no difference, not even  Illya  craps himself around Napoleon who willingly locks his legs around the Russian's waist bur ying  his face in Napoleon's throat. "Mine!" Close to release, Peril sounds plaintiff, a supplicant instead of conqueror looking for confirmation. 

"Put your back into it, Peril! Or I'm taking a nap." He sneers, unable to stand the intimacy of the moment, and  Illya  surges up, bares his teeth...and does as he's told. Napoleon comes, sobbing at the agony in his bludgeoned ass,  Illya  following soon after leaving bruises on Napoleon's hips, rolls off of him and rises turning away at once. "You nap now." 

Napoleon doesn't demand he come back, doesn't watch  Illya  getting dressed and slipping out of the room without bothering to release him from his bonds.

Maybe  one day, he's going to actually ask, maybe he'll feel better after  Illya  refuses, will manage to beat the need that has become as much of part of him as it had been of Peril. 

Maybe one day, one of them will wise up...but he doesn't see it happening any time soon.


End file.
